r 

PS 

59 } 


.S3U5 

^opyz 


FT MEADE 
GenColl 



GLIMPSES 


A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF 
SECONDARY SCHOOL 
VERSE 




EDITED BY 

PAUL SUMNER NICKERSON 



























>■: 




• t. V. 






It... 


t'' • 'f 

^ •< 

• ,u .■:*'* v*!s' ■ 

tf.t* ■;. 

.‘'•v •■', •“ 

' W ' .'•s >' . •, 

■• • • >;. ~*f 


". 'j. 


■ -r ■ 










1 
















j 

























i 


/ 




' t" ' ' - 7 - j • t ; ’ •<> 

' • v ->•. ,.•• 

.■■ V ■ 'V' '‘'’•Vv'- -v ••; "•., ^ 

■' ■ ■! ' f-A:- ^ 

■ ■' . ''.-•"v ’'\'C'-'‘ ''J-, 


-- vt' . 

■ -;• •': ’■•-'•••-■‘v- •. -. 

• * i >'1 


f'' ■ ■; r ' 

. *‘ • *,>' ' ;•.: •" ^ ‘ >. 

■ : ^■'■' ■; T 

■.,.. ;r -•.-••'v-.' '■ 


• '■''’ 'f' ’ ■?> .• >,.■. ...» 


. “-vN' .:.- ■ 

, • .. * " . * , • ' ^' • 

* ’•' c * J i »» • i_ ' K • > ?_ 

■■- --‘v .'■'■.;fekr^-‘'-'^v:'^ '^'■■- -.v ■ 

. * -• * ’ V ' >' 

-v ' . • ;• \!. 

, - 'U' f.-.'- . 

■ ■' ■.,- 

. - •• ■ V>;^ -IV.. ‘ ^ ‘ •, '•-' 

'- ■■..^■. •./ •,.■■ . 

' ■••'t *;: ■ ' ■ • •■'■ 

•., '-..-J,v.-•*•’■• 

, ^ ',v ‘ ‘ **' • 

-: r- > r.LV’'..v. ■ ••;.'• 


v';?; * •. '> 

I 


*' *''',^ . .• Vv'T, • '*. "*-'V.;'- !• ‘ • 

5 >r. *. , r*.' ; ■ 


5 'f. . , 3 • • « '•• 

' .-y ." .'V'l'' •• '-■ ■ 

■ '■ -:-£, ■ •'•:■■-:■■ 




■ .■^« i: ■' ' .»•■.■*,. •■• 


• "> ‘V J 


.j : , • 4 /:• • 

.. . / > 

* ., r •••« :i- '■'■'■ i..- ' 


:' ■•.,■•'.•: 'H--' 'V, 

■ ■ . ;. • i .. ■ . •, 

. .. .■' 4 '‘':t''^ X ■' • .•',' 

.' . - . " • ' X'*-* . 

. • - ■■ '-.t -'^T • •". 

•. •'•; 

^ <■ ■; V--' 

:•" \ • ;• •'''•-u , v;' 


- * 

4*.... 

' h 

. ,' / 


i* w 


... , f r 

, M-V, .•-'//;*> :•• », : 

■ :., -»x-- 

-.'• . . ‘ .-■,••• • • ... -. 


• \ * 




• V 


• m ‘ 

T'y ‘ 

' .*- ^ 

;v 

^ V • 




■ 



■ yyMMilm 






GLIMPSES 

A NATIONAL ANTHOLOGY OF 
SECONDARY SCHOOL 
VERSE 
1923 


EDITED BY 


/ 


PAUL SUMNER NICKERSON, A. M. 

Principal of the High School 
Middleboro, Massachusetts 


PUBLISHED AT 


MIDDLEBORO, MASSACHUSETTS 







Page 

Voice op the Sea, John Holmes, *2^ .25 

The Seagull, Elinor Garrison, *24 .26 

Cruel, Margaret Harland, *24 .26 

Two Men, Margaret Harland, *24 .27 

Dead Harbor, Robbins Fowler, *24 .28 

The Spanish Main, John T. Herrstrom, *23 .30 

The Sea, Janet Wattles .31 

Allegretto, Daisy Newman, *23 .32 

Is Life Worth Living? Thelma Bishop, *23 .33 

Dusk, John Holmes, *24 . 34 

The City After Rain, Wilson Morris, *25 .35 

City Twilight, Robert Keefe, *24 .35 

Return, Eleanor Wolff, *23 .36 

A Song, Prudence Veatch, *25 .37 

Ballad op the Wise Woman, Helen Butterly, *23 .... 37 

The Public Library, Herbert H. Weinstock, *23 .41 

Abraham Lincoln, George H. Rehrn^ .42 

The Judge, Bessie Closson, *23 .42 

Sorrow, Margaret McHugh, *23 .43 

A Lonely Child, Dorothy M. Powell, *23 .43 

To Him Who Sighs, Marjorie Cope, *24 .44 

Dreams, W. Marshall Johnson, *23 .44 

Geniuses, Helen Jewett, *23 .45 

Beauty, Marshal Schacht .64 

Sonnet to a Cameo, Ruth McDermott, *24 .47 

The Coral Reef, Jane Didisheim .48 

Venice, Thomas R. Berkshire, *23 .49 

Traveling, Janet Wattles . 49 

Lines, Jim Chichester, *24 .50 

Child Thoughts, Lettice Lee Coulling, *24 .50 


IV 































PREFACE 


This is an astonishing collection, this harvest of poems 
by school children, children surely who can instruct their 
teachers and elders not only in the love of beauty but in 
unselfishness and purity of heart. It is a living document 
of the hope which, despite all caviling, promises a better 
America in the coming generation. No one can read this 
book honestly and speak of it in a tone of condescension; 
the tone must be one of humility and gratitude. We have 
the child’s joy, but we have as well a poignancy of feeling, 
a maturity of thought, and an instinct of style that are 
most surprising. No one can say he knows America 
without taking into consideration such evidence as this. 

The English teachers of secondary schools should keep 
Mr. Nickerson’s book by them as a daily manual. Lovers 
of poetry in the old-fashioned sense will find in its fresh¬ 
ness reminders of Wordsworth’s “Prelude,” for there is 
spiritual beauty here as well as natural. Finally, all who 
love and believe in children should, seek here the con¬ 
firmation of their vision. It is in the last analysis an 
almost sacred pleasure that one receives from these pure 
hearts and brave voices. May we know and be worthy 
of our children! 

Charles Wharton Stork. 


V 


little book, containing some of the best poems from The 
Gleam together with a number of unpublished pupil 
poems is the result. The editor would be willing to go 
even further and consider the annual publication of a 
student anthology if teachers and pupils by their decep¬ 
tion of the present volume should indicate a desire for 
further volumes of a similar nature, and if the teachers 
continue to forward student verse which in quantity and 
quality makes possible volumes the merit of which justifies 
their publication. This matter, however, lies entirely 
with the teachers and students. 

One thing we wish to enforce at this point. Our efforts 
in furthering verse-writing by students have at one time 
and another been misinterpreted as a blind incubation of 
unimportant verse. We are not deceiving ourselves in 
this matter; much less do we wish to deceive others. It 
will clarify our aim to quote from an editorial on this 
very subject in The Gleam. “The poems are not our chief 
concern; rather, the writers of the poems. And we defy 
anyone with even an elementary understanding of poetry 
and of people to deny that expressing oneself in poetry 
refines and ennobles one’s life in a most complete sense. . . . 
This is a human world . . . and recognition of worthy 
effort is one of the most effective aids to worthier effort— 
which is all that life is in the last analysis. ... A general 
appreciation of poetry is a national asset, and individual 
appreciation is personally refining and ennobling. It is 
axiomatic that verse writing is one of the surest roads 
to the appreciation o? poetry.” The function of this 
anthology as of The Gleam “is not the manufacturing of 
viii 


ioets, but the broadening, deepening, and refining of 
J^ung lives at a crucial and impressionable age through 
stmulating a more general appreciation of poetry, in the 
mi^st of which the true created poets, young and old, 
ma\ live and move and have their being more abundantly.” 

Ti\e publication of this book is in itseK an expression of 
our confidence that these songs will give real joy to the 
mass of poetry-loving teachers and pupils and small com¬ 
fort to skeptics and cynics. In conclusion we desire to 
express our sincere appreciation to Miss Elizabeth Rich¬ 
ardson and Miss Laura Richardson of the Girls’ High 
School, Boston; to Miss Katharine Shute of the Boston 
Normal School; to Dr. Percy W. Long, and Dr. Charles 
Wharton Stork, Editor of “Contemporary Verse” (Phila¬ 
delphia), for reading the manuscript in proof and for 
valuable suggestions. 

Paul Sumner Nickerson. 

Middleboro, Mass., 

Dec. 1, 1923. 


IX 



ARIZONA 


hy Mary Josephine Murphy, *28 

From its nest far up on the red clifiF 
An eagle flies— 

It veers high in the dense blue 
Of flawless skies. 

Only the wind cries 

Adown the chasm below, 

And miles beneath, at the canyon’s feet. 

Black waters flow. 

And the bleached sands of the desert 
Lie stretching there; 

And far over the vast space 
Arid and bare. 

Cries from some wild lair 

Are borne by winds, whose song 
Echoed ’mid the chasm deep. 

Is centuries long. 

Academy of St. Elizabeth, Convent, New Jersey. 


1 


IN FEEEMONT PASS 

hy John Meredith Hiatt^ 

In Freemont pass, in Freemont pass. 

Whose gloomy gorge defies the day. 

Where once the conquering riders passed. 

Where squirrels now and -actors play. 

The circling buzzards circle still. 

Over the rocky bush-clad hill; 

But even they can but forget 
The company their fathers met. 

It was in the long, the long ago, 

That Freemont’s band through the gorges rode„ 
Wearily riding, weary and slow. 

Startling the birds in their wild abode. 

Jaded and worn wdth the way they had gone, 
Dauntlessly set on the way still to go, 

Biding and riding and riding on. 

Bent on the conquest of the Don, 

In his fertile country below. 

Bronzed they were and bearded and grim. 

Clad in their fringed hunting shirts. 

Scarred and dusty and fierce and thin. 

Tight their belts and their saddle girths. 

Tlot, tlot, tlot, we hear them come. 
Long-barreled guns at their pommels slung„ 
Long-bladed knives at their girdles hung. 

And on each hip in its holster’s room 
2 


The nine-pound gun of the old dragoon; 
Riding and riding, this warlike band, 

Down on the dreamy lotus land. 

Down on the dreamy lotus land. 

The lazy, lovely lotus land. 

With its padres gray and its senors grand. 
Where the tall-walled missions aging stand. 
And senoritas with dark eyes 
Smile on vaqueros under moonlit skies. 

Clash on the trail that winds to the sea. 
Clatter the hoofs of the cavalry. 

Riding and riding and riding on. 

Bringing the end of the day of the Don. 

Oh! the day of the Don, the day of the Don, 
Glorious time that now is gone. 

Like the notes of some haunting song 
Which, although the singer is dead. 

Still ring on in the hearer’s head, 

Ling’ring a purpling memory 
In the scarlet sunset of history. 

Day of the Don which can come back never. 
Day of the Don which has gone forever. 

Let the Spaniard wave you a last farewell. 
Languorous day which he loved so well. 

Out of these passes galloped forth 
The bearded conquerors from the north, 
Bringing the steel of a newer age 
3 


Over the hills and through the sage; 
Bringing the town and the factory, 
Wheels and iron and industry, 

Clangs and bangs and smoke and sweat 
But silence reigns in these passes yet. 
Silence reigns—a stillness deep 
As the mountains in their sleep 
When that silence is not broken 
By the drama that's unspoken. 

Here the picture cowboys ride; 

Battles on the mountainside 
Rage in noisy mimicry 
Of that quiet company. 

Quiet ever they will be. 

They have ridden to the sea 
That is called eternity. 

Shall we say they ride no more? 

Are the horsemen’s journeys o’er? 

Has all motion ceased with breath? 

Has all living died with death? 

Though the cavalrymen are dust. 
Though their chargers now are naughty 
Even so they ride with us. 

Phantoms on the steeds of thought; 
And, as long as progress grows 
In the land which they have won, 

A long line of horsemen goes 
Spurring onward, one by one; 

With each wire and railroad line, 

4 


Fiery hoofbeats ring and chime. 

Clanging on the trails of time. 

Union High School, Whittier, California. 

SALVAGE 

by Mary Josephine Murphy, *23 
It was three thousand years ago or more 
A mighty monarch ruled th’ Egyptian land; 

And to him countless tribes allegiance swore. 

And armies fought and died at his command. 
Upon his ivory throne inlaid with gold 
He sat, while jeweled slaves behind him fanned 
His brow; and sages wondrous stories told. 

He built a vaulted palace for his tomb. 

And when he died they did their king enfold 
In broidered purple robes, and in the gloom 
Of all his grandeur lay him down to sleep. 

They burned fair incense in the low, dark room. 
Then left him, through the centuries to keep 
Eternal vigil with the Shadow Deep. 

Today a stranger from a foreign shore 
Unearths an ivory throne embedded deep 
In sand. And even Egypt knows no more 
Who built this architecture, now a heap 
Of ruins—fragments gold, inlaid with jewels. 

And bronze and silver trophies from a war— 
Now scarred by time, that dire destroyer cruel 
Who has erased a king’s name from the page 
5 


Of those whose deeds will live; who, in the pool 
Of worthless things (whose seething waves will rage 
Until all time shall end) has drowned the claim 
Of ancient height; who, with a finger sage. 

Has writ in gold full many a humble fame 
But left a mighty king without a name. 

Academy of St. Elizabeth, Convent, New Jersey. 

m THE TEMPLE OF MAMMON 
by Viola Wertheim, *25 

The great dark hangings fall richly in the temple; 

The incense burns, making the air heavy, sweet, unreal— 
The worshippers kneel,—men unused to kneeling,— 

And pray reverently: “Oh, most high God, 

Why have you neglected us, your chosen people? 

Why do you frown upon us and withdraw your bounty? 
You are God,—and there is but One.” 

And their God answers, “Hear ye my people. 

Look at the altar—b^are. Where are your gifts? 

I must have sacrifice to test your faith.” 

And then they heaped it high with gold and silver. 
Diamonds and rubies, all that their hearts hold dear. 

But their God answered: “Why should I want 
Gifts I myself bestow? I must have lives— 

Great lives to stunt—straight lives to twist—^young lives 
to kill. 

I must have babes burnt upon the altar. 

That ye may be purified and made holy.” 

And so they heaped upon the altar many lives. 

6 


And they were warped and twisted,—burnt and killed. 
Then said the God, “Truly ye are my people;” 

And the worshippers peering over their fat pauiiches. 
Said, “Just and forgiving art thou. Oh God; Amen.” 

Ethical Culture School, New York City. 


AND IT SPOKE 

hy Dorothy Hilliard, ’28 
I had sighed; 

But my sighs knew no answer; 

I had prayed; 

But my prayers were in vain. 

I had suffered; 

But God had forgotten. 

For time had but shown me more pain. 

Where is God.?^ 

Can’t he give me assurance? 

Won’t he speak 

Just to tell me his love? 

Is he chained 

Or unable to find us 
From his home in the Heaven above? 

So I walked in the garden at evening 
Where the flowers were softly at rest; 
There a tiny pink rose-bud hung near me; 
I plucked it to pin at my breast. 

7 


And it spoke; 

With its perfume it told me 
That the God I had searched for was there 
In the garden, the rose, and the dew-drop— 

In the gloom, in the dark—everywhere. 

Then my soul breathed; 

It thrilled in its gladness. 

And there in the black night—alone 
I prayed 

From my heart in its fullness 
To the God I so newly had known. 

High School, Highland Park, Michigan. 


AT EVENING 

hy Wilson Morris, '25 
When God comes home from work 
At evening. 

We children run to meet Him as he comes. 

And hold His hands, and chatter of the day. 

When God comes home from work 
At evening. 

When God comes home from work at evening, 

God takes off His great wind-winged shoes. 

And rests His tired feet on the mountain top 
And smokes His ancient pipe, blowing grey clouds in little 
puffs. 


8 


God sits before the open fire—the sun— 

And holds His hands out to its glow. 

God dozes. Slowly the fire dies. 

The ashes are grey. 

We children gather nearer, but we play 
More quietly, 

When God comes home from work 
At evening. 

Girls^ High School, Louisville, Kentucky. 

THERE IS A LAND 

by Marshal Schacht 
There is a land 

Far, far away, where poplar trees. 

Like tall, thin brushes. 

Sweep the wind white sky. 

Whistling, sighing, reaching up 
To find the golden pots of stars 
And paint the evening sky. 

High School, Brookline, Massachusetts. 

TWILIGHT 

by Geraldine Seelmire, *23 
Twilight across the lake 
Struck crimson and blue-gold; 

A night breeze stirred to wake 
The night-hawk, and the cold 
Of eve spread o’er the hills 
9 


As the sun sank in the woods, 

Reflecting in the rills 
And marshy solitudes 
The last sign of the Day 
That seemed to linger there 
When Light had flown away 
And dew was in the air. 

High School, Hollywood, California, 

SUNSET ON THE ST. JOSEPH RIVER 

hy Jeannette Child, ’23 
Purple waters lying 
Under cloudlets flying 
Glimmer with the farewell of the sun. 

Green shores turn to shadow, 

Silver is the meadow 

Fringed with willows silvered every one. 

Pearl and clouds of yellow 

Make the sunset mellow 

As they fill the distance of the skies. 

Blue and green of ocean 
Flicker with the motion 
Of the water where their image lies. 

All the hues are hinting 

At magenta tinting 

On the clouds and on the river’s face. 

Zephyr ceases singing, 

10 


Onward silent winging, 

Leaves the silver willows in their place. 

The University High School, Chicago, Illinois, 


EVENING 

by Roslyn Selker, *23 
Along the golden shore at eve 
The moon is sad—alone; 

The waves and pebbles whisper low 
In mingled, hollow tone— 

Oh blow! 

The water lilies blow. 

By lulling winds are tossed— 

Asleep on clouds that roll and heave. 

The mellow moon is lost. 

Heights High School, Cleveland, Ohio, 


THE TWO MOONS 

by Louva M, Crane, *23 
Do you see the New Moon? 

Away and away in the far west it lies. 

Dips its curve to the hills, tips its wings to the skies, 
A slim silver bird through the night clouds it flies. 
Lovely New Moon. 


11 


Do you see the Old Moon? 

In the arms of the New Moon, a phantom of gold; 

All its radiance gone,—’tis so worn-out and cold. 

Its short nights of glory soon numbered, soon told. 

Weary Old Moon! 

Whence comes the New Moon? 

From the hearts of the flowers, from the buds on the trees, 
From the laughter of waters, from the turf on the leas, 
From the magic of fairies, from the sweet springtime breeze 
Upsprings the New Moon. 

Whither goes the Old Moon? 

In the moan of the surf, in the night wind’s soft sighing, 
In the whispering of pines, in the lone loon’s weird crying, 
In the whiteness of snowflakes through chill gray air flying 
Abides the Old Moon. 

Don’t you love these Two Moons? 

The New Moon, its bowl brimmed with hopes cherished 
high; 

The Old Moon, its phantom that never will die. 

And the evening that gives place to both in the sky— 

This Old and New Moon. 

High School, Windom, Minnesota, 


n 


TO THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND 


hy Helen Peabody, ^23 
I gaze upon the stars. 

They mock, with glittering eyes, 

Man and his stupidness. 

“He calls us names,” they laugh, 

“Names of the heathen gods; 

By us he measures space. 

And boasts of what we’re made; 

Poor man, who thinks he knows!” 

The glowing night stoops low. 

Arranging the gems in her hair. 

A jewel slips through white fingers,— 

Man sees a falling star. 

He explains the why and the wherefore; 

But night smiles tenderly. 

Singing her lullaby 
To those who understand. 

High School, Portland, Maine. 


A THOUGHT 

hy Myron Magneson, '23 
In the dark blue of the dusk. 

In the soft blue of the morning. 
When the birds enliven the tree-tops 
And swim thru the cooling air,— 

13 


Then, the time for meditation, 

Then, the time for prayer. 

Technical High School, Omaha, Nebraska, 

BEFORE THE DAWN 
by Geraldine Seelmire, ’23 
Shadow-mountains lay across the lake. 

The midnight moon was mirrored deep in blue; 

No caressing branches stirred to break 
The mystic figures that the shadows drew. 

But the moon grew weary of her glow; 

She passed. The lake lay sullenly in dark, 

And breezes brushed the pictures from her—lo! 

Diana heralds Morning with a lark! 

High School, Hollywood, California. 

AURORA 
by Helen Paddock 

(Written After the Reading of Milton) 

A slow silence: 

And while I sit upon a hilltop waiting for the Dawn, 
Aurora slowly wakens from her starry couch. 

A faint, grey mist steals from her castle in the East 

To herald her approach. Her handmaids wing their way 

To waken up the cock, and whisper to the wind 

About her coming. The wind in turn 

Creeps through the trees, and as they nod 

This way and that, a thrush takes up 

The work begun, sweetly singing. 

14 


Now comes Aurora, touching up the jeweled cobwebs 
With caressing glances; hovering about the flowers 
In great Pan’s garden; dipping dainty Angers 
In crystal basins filled with liquid jade; 

Listening in awed silence to the pearls of melody 
That downward float from out the lark’s clear throat; 
With her garments ever trailing, in bewitching swirls 
And eddies, till you wonder at her passing,— 

Then swiftly understand that she herself 
Only is shy maiden of the dawn, Aurora; 

With flaxen hair and ever restless, changing eyes. 
Princess of the household of the Sun. 

Girls* High School, Boston, MassachiLsetls, 

THINGS 

by Dorothy M. Powell, *23 
Things that are lovely 
Can tear my heart in two: 

Moonlight on still pools,— 

You. 

Things that are mellow 
Can fill me with delight: 

Old songs remembered,— 

Night. 

Things that are lonely 

Can make me catch my breath: 

Hunger for lost arms,— 

High School, Chester, Pa. 
15 


DREAMS 

hy Marion L. Grandey, 

I have a little house, 

A tiny little dream house, 

Just built for—one. 

It has a fenced-in garden 
Where the oldest flowers grow. 

Larkspur and four o’clocks. 

Marigolds and hollyhocks. 

All in a row. 

There’s a wide-spreading tree 
Under which I’ll sew. 

All this— 

If my Prince Charming never comes, 

And I am left alone. 

High School, Burlington, Vermont, 

I SEEK A GARDEN 
hy Marshal Schacht 
In this garden I am dazed 
with clustered roses, 
beds of poppies, 
apple flowers, 

vdth all these perfumed clouds. 

I seek a garden 

where there are no flowers 

save just one rose 

that I can try to understand. 

High School, Brookline, Massachusetts. 
16 


THE GARDEN 
hy Helen J. Shearer, ^25 

The quaint old-fashioned garden 
Still lies beneath the sun; 

The roses still are blooming, 

And the bench is overrun 
With honeysuckle blossoms, 

Though the autumn has begun. 

The garden gate stands open wide. 

As if expecting there 
Someone who tarries overlong. 

And maybe does not care 

About the quaint old-fashioned garden 

That was left blooming there. 

In the middle of the garden, stands 
The sundial twined with flowers; 

The motto, now long hidden, reads 
‘T mark the sunny hours.” 

Germantown Friends School, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 

AUTUMN 
hy Ada Bortnick, 

World, today you’re red and gold. 

Who could call you sad or old.? 

Who could say that Autumn grieves? 

See, she dances through the leaves 
Like a happy child at play 
17 


On a golden holiday; 

What a glorious child is she, 

Not a sad thought in her head, 

Radiant with gold and red. 

Ruby and gold and russet and brown. 

Fluttering, fluttering, aimlessly down. 

Leaves are falling in showers today. 

Hills are changing their yellow for gray. 

They are baring their trees for wintry winds. 
Blustering, hurrying, whistling winds. 

Red will change to powdery white . . . 

But Autumn, world of red and gold. 

Who could call you sad or old? 

Dorchester High School, Boston, Massachtisetts^ 

SONNET 

On Jackson's Garden 
by Mary E. Roberts, '2^ 

The sweet, damp odor of the rain-cooled earth; 

A drooping rose; a half-awakened bee 
Sipping the nectar slowly, daintily. 

To get, from every blossom, its full worth. 

A drenched, forlorn, bedraggled butterfly 
Comes fluttering, the sunlight’s warmth to share* 
The brooklet, winding on without a care. 

The garden soothes with its soft lullaby . . . 

18 


But now the summer’s loveliness is spent; 

Her roses to the winter gales are flung— 

And over all the garden, snow lies deep. 
Obedient to the wind the trees are bent, 

Their branches all with icy festoons hung— 
Awaiting Spring, the garden lies asleep. 

High School, Schenectady, New York, 


WINTER IN LIVERPOOL 
by Florence Tyler, '23 

Snow falls— 

Flakes are swirling— 

Icy blasts sweep out to sea. 

But now against dark market stalls 
Red holly and pert mistletoe gleam 
Among their wax-green leaves. 

Cries the lusty paper boy: • 

“Evening Echo, Third Edition, 

’Apenny each. 

All about the Taybridge disaster!” 

Snow falls; 

Flakes are swirling; 

Icy blasts sweep out to sea. . . . 

High School, Westfield, Massachusetts, 


19 


LENA THE NEVER-WAKING: RUSSIAN SONG 
hy Eli Richman 

The wooded banks rise steep 
By the frozen shores of Lena, 

Of Lena the cold and the mighty, 

Of Lena the never-thawing. 

The towering firs reach deep 
On the sides of the river Lena, 

Of Lena the broad and the winding. 

Of Lena the ever-sleeping. 

The sound of hoofs rings clear 
On the solid bosom of Lena, 

The nimble hoofs of the reindeer. 

Friend and slave to the traveller. 

And the heart of the wanderer sings 
As the shores of Lena speed by him. 

Sings with the joy of freedom. 

And the wide, white peace of the river. 

High Schoolj Quincy, Massachusetts, 


THE PRISM OF THE YEAR 
hy Winifred Bayer, "28 

A prism to my mind the earth appears. 
Begun with violet, the faint caress 
Of Nature’s brush tenderly fills afresh 
20 


The outlines of returning Spring. Then clears 
The wind to sweep the Summer sky all blue. With tears 
Rain paints a world of green. The gold noon sun 
And orange harvest fields proclaim anon 
The Autumn-crimson triumph of the year! 

And then a gradual fading out of Life, 

The crowning of the Year has come and gone. 

But not the end. For Winter comes to bind 
All colors into one—the sparkling white 

Of snow and ice. Lose not your Faith, ’tis not 
The end of all things here, for Spring waits just beyond. 

Lafayette High School, Buffalo, New York. 


A SONNET 
hy Gladys Coats 

This is the time the geese go clanging north. 

The blood leaps to the spur of old desires. 

They shriek the old, old challenge to come forth 
To where the thin smoke drifts from cooking fires. 
Across a lonely lake; and memories 
Of things I never saw sweep over me,— 

Of palm trees swaying in the salty breeze. 

And corals blazing in a tropic sea. 

But most I dream about the good green hills, 
Where few if any feet have ever trod. 

That lure me with the lure of hidden rills. 

To dream the new-old dreams alone with God. 

21 


This is the end of waiting, for I know 
That at the next wild challenge I shall go. 

Central High School, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, 

BEAUTY 

hy Elizabeth Grinnan 

My spirit is wild, untrammeled and free; 

The vast blue spaces in the sky 
Sprinkled with stars. 

And the swaying tops of mountain pines 
Are its playgrounds. 

But sometimes when I gather the stars in my arms, 
Their shining points tear at my heart; 

And the sharp, fragrant odor of the pines 
Cuts like a breath of flame. 

Maury High School, Norfolk, Virginia, 

LITTLE GOD OF THE WOODLAND 

hy Wanda Petrunkevitch, '23 

O little god of the woodland, who dwells where the rivers 
begin. 

Where out of the cavern the brooklet rushes with ju¬ 
bilant din. 

Who decks the mountains with cascades and girdles his 
garments with streams 

And out of the dancing bubbles fashions delectable 
dreams; 


22 


Methouglit that I heard thee one time, a shout and a tinkle 
of spray, 

A laugh like the echo of Springtime, a call—and a song— 
and away! 

O little god of the woodland, who sits where the rivulets 
drip 

Deep in a mountain fissure, under a crag’s broad lip. 

Who labors to make the silver that glints in the rapid’s 
heart 

And into the waterfall’s shimmer lavishly scatters thine 
art, 

Methought that I saw thee one time—a glimmer of pearly 
gray, 

A flutter of green like the forest; a leap—and a skip— 
and away! 

O little god of the woodland, who freshens the dull hearts 
of men 

And when they are bruised or weary, heals and makes 
merry again. 

Who gladdens the mountain with brooklets, with the rivers 
brings laughter to vales. 

Who art more beloved than cities, more mighty than 
ledgers and scales, 

Methought that I followed thee one time, methought that 
I held thee—but nay! 

A breath like the incense of morning; a touch—and a 
sigh—and away! 

The Gateway,' New Haven, Connecticut, 

23 


IF I HAD ALADDIN’S LAMP 
hy Florence Mason, '^4- 

If but Aladdin’s lamp were mine 
And all I wished for I could get, 

In a big nursery, cool and white. 

The scene of my one wish I’d set. 

And all the little kiddies sick 

From want of money, homes, and care, 

I’d bring to this, my bright dream-house 
And all my love among them share. 

Then when the twilight shades came on 
I’d gather them around my knee. 

And of Aladdin tales I’d tell 
And of the wish he’d given me. 

And after this I’d tuck them warm 
In soft and white and fleecy beds; 

Place tender kisses on pink cheeks 
And gently brush their curly heads. 

All this and more I’d gladly do 

Were that lamp mine and my wish true. 

Cambridge High and Latin School, 

Cambridge, Massachusetts, 


24 


THE BABY’S LAUGH 
by Mary Margarett Plank 

A little laugh leaped from a baby’s lips. 

Where it was playing one day, 

And off it ran, through the little gate. 

Over the hills and away. 

Over the hill and down through the dale. 

Through the violet-studded lea; 

It laughed at the breeze through the willow trees> 
“Oh, ho! You cannot catch me!” 

Then with dancing feet it stopped to play 
In a brook so clear and cool;— 

And there you may hear it any day 
Just at the edge of the pool! 

West Side High School, Denver, Colorado, 


VOICE OF THE SEA 
by John Holmes, 

Trees speak in gentle low-voiced murmurings; 
Brooks in the mountains sing a melody; 

But no voice speaks with accents awe-inspiring 
As the stem roaring of the mighty sea. 

Deep is the thunder of the pounding surf 
That beats recurrent on the far-stretched sand; 
25 


Deeper the hoarse voiced wind that sweeps 
Out of the endless sea across the open land. 

High School, Somerville, Massachusetts. 

THE SEAGULL 
by Elinor Garrison, 

A ceaseless rover, waif of many climes, 

He scorns the tempest, greets the lifting sun 

With wings that fling the light and sink at times 
To ride in triumph where the tall waves run. 

The rocks tide-worn, the high cliff brown and bare. 
And crags of bleak, strange shores he rests upon; 

He floats above, a moment hangs in air. 

Clean-etched against the broad, gold breast of dawn. 

When wild, strong billows reach in flercest might 
To clutch the gems that Are the midnight sky. 

When anger turns the ocean’s face to white. 

Then sounds afar his shrill, exultant cry. 

Central High School, Bridgeport, Connecticut. 

CRUEL 

by Margaret Harland, 

The fog stole landward 

With swirling draperies of ghostly cloud. 

With sinuous pale arms and dripping hands— 

Hands that had crushed and drowned a hundred ships— 
Implacably it crept by mouldering walls. 

And down the narrow street where night-lamps flared 
26 


It choked each spark of light with pitiless fingers— 
Then guiltily stole seaward at the dawn. 

North High School, Worcester, Massachusetts, 


TWO MEN 
hy Margaret Harland, 

Two men 

Stood on a busy pier and watched the shipping. 
The narrow channel, and the grey gulls dipping. 
And as they watched, a ship stood in from sea, 
Threading the harbor lanes majestically. 

And, weary, came to anchor in the tide. 

One man thought only of her battered side. 

Her worn-off paint and salt-encrusted bow— 

He wondered how much work she needed now 
To fit her out again, how full her hold 
Of foreign products to be bought and sold. 

A clipper was a clipper—so he thought— 

To be considered for the wealth she brought. 

The other watcher marked each slender mast. 

The web of rigging, idle sails made fast 
After their work was done, all sea-worn beauty 
Combined with iron strength to meet stern duty; 
Thought of that leaping ship as home she turned. 
The wind astern, the trampled water spurned. 

To bring him glowing wealth of dream that day 
From hidden lands and oceans far away. 

North High School, Worcester, Massachusetts, 
27 


DEAD HARBOR 

by Robbins Fowlery '^4 

Like empty arms the docks 

Stretch out in silent ruin along the shore, 

Deserted, musty, dead. 

A weird creaking stirs their crumbling floor 
Torn from the aged posts. 

Which tremble in the water, rotten to the core. 

Sad-eyed the windows stare 

From gaunt warehouses standing by the way 

Staring mute anguish 

At the blue and placid bosom of the bay. 

Bare save for sunbeams 

Which flicker on its waters in their play. 

The street between is deep 

With grass, half choked by weeds and briars keen 

Which creep with dogged strength 

Upon the wharf and fill its holes with green; 

The cheerful sun streams down— 

God’s way of lessening the pathos of the scene. 

All is forgotten of this harbor 

Whose wharves resounded once with noisy tread 

Of those who toiled upon it. 

Or braved the raging sea to win their bread. 

All is forgotten now; 

It lies alone, forsaken, useless, dead. 

28 


An old man sits nearby 

And gazes with unseeing, heedless eyes 

At his pipe’s smoke, 

Which curls in wavery lines across the skies. 

When lost in meditation 

Each active sense grows dim and seems to die. 

For him the harbor lives. 

And once again upon its wooden piers 
Life ebbs and flows: 

Men with their loss and gain, their hopes and fears; 
Women who watch the sea. 

Their hearts with longing filled, their eyes with tears. 

Dotted along the bay 

Ships dance at anchor with their sails 

Beating the fragrant air— 

Great white birds tossed by a northern gale. 

A group of sailors lounge 

Upon the dock and weave their long-drawn tales. 
Ceaselessly to and fro 

Upon their bare black feet the stevedores run 
To do their many duties; 

They laugh, their white teeth gleaming in the sun. 
Captains drink contentedly. 

Another cargo in, a victory won. 

The harbor brims with joy; 

Each warehouse of the treasure has a share. 

29 


Peace and plenty mingle 

With the water and the salt tang of the air, 

A scene which once beheld 

Lightens the heart and drives away all care. 

Upon a row of buildings 

Tottering and old, the sun casts down its beams,— 

A harbor barren of boats, 

A long wharf rotting, gaping at the seams; 

Amid this desolation 

An old man sits and smokes and dreams his dreams. 
New Hanover High School, Wilmington, North Carolina. 

THE SPANISH MAIN 
by John T, Herrstrom, "23 

I am the ghost of a buccaneer 
That sailed the Spanish Main. 

O! the battles we won ’neath the southern sun 
When we gave no quarter and asked for none. 

As we sailed the Spanish Main! 

I had loved a North Coast country lass 
In the years that had gone before. 

Slender and winsome and pretty was she. 

But she spurned my love and had none for me. 

In the years that had gone before. 

So I lost my heart to the rolling sea 
And became a buccaneer. 

30 


What lives we lived! What tales we told, 

As we stored the ship with glistening gnld! 

Oh, I was a buccaneer! 

More and more I came to love 
The life of a buccaneer: 

When the cannon spoke, and the cutlass stroke 
Sent men to their deaths in the yellow smoke 
Of the guns of the buccaneer. 

“Here’s to the health o’ Davy Jones!” 

We’d shout as we drank our rum. 

The scuppers were red with the blood of the dead 
That rested that night in a watery bed 
As we shouted and drank our rum. 

Yes, I am the ghost of a buccaneer 
That sailed the Spanish Main, 

That tosses and turns in a deep sea grave 
And dreams of the times when men were brave. 

In the days of the Spanish Main. 

Dorchester High School, Boston, Massachusetts, 


THE SEA 
by Janet Wattles 


Who can tell of the sesi? It is not for me; 

Its shifting expanse is too wide; 

In its fathoms profound, deep harmonies sound. 
Old secrets in mystery hide. 

31 


Its murmurings tell of a potent spell, 

Of a force that is strange and apart. 

It cannot sleep, so vast, so deep. 

The stir of its throbbing heart. 

The soul of the sea! Oh, the heart of me 
Is too small to understand. 

My gladness is found, and my suffering bound,. 

By the touch of a human hand. 

Buffalo Seminaryy Buffalo, New York, 


ALLEGRETTO 
by Daisy Newman, ^23 

I have set the whole of my life attune 
To the melody of the pulsing sea. 

To the whispered chant of the cedar tree. 

And the carolling stars, the harvest moon. 

My heart sings out with the warbled calls. 

With the cooling hush of the evening shade. 

And the gurgled strokes of the paddle’s blade 
As the river rushes to swell the falls. 

To this end I live; that no deed of mine 
May mar the harmonious roundelay. 

No dissonant word may jar its song; 

But, in accord with the chorused throng 
May I pipe in tune through the merry day 
And become a part of the song divine. 

Ethical Culture School, New York City^ 
32 


IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 

hy Thelma Bishop, '23 

*Ts life worth living?’'—Ask the lily fair 
And softly petaled rose that fill the air 
With incense sweet, thus giving back again 
God’s blessing to them in the wind and rain 
And sunshine warm and bright. 

“Is life worth living?”—^Ask the modest thrush 
Who, when the day is done, in twilight hush. 

From some low bush in quiet solitude 
Pours out in melody his gratitude— 

A benedicite! 

“Is life worth living?”—Ask the towering tree 
That stands beside the road in majesty. 

Each spreading branch like some great sheltering hand. 
Its shade protecting in a weary land. 

Wayfarers worn and tired. 

“Is life worth living?”—Ask the kindly soul 
Who turns aside from every selfish goal 
To aid her neighbor in some dire distress— 

King’s daughter she, though in the humblest dress— 
And thus her blessing shares. 

“Is life worth living?”—^Ask the white capped nurse 
Who gently strives to mitigate the curse 
. 33 


Of careless, sinful living and bestows 
Her tender care on sufferers—even those 
Who take with thankless words. 

“Is life worth living?’’—Ask the man who goes 
Wherever there is need, to friends or foes. 

And with him takes the holy written word. 

Which comforts when its promises are heard— 

The faithful man of God. 

And all of these—from man of God to flower— 
Will answer make that in your every hour 
You need not doubt that life is worth the living 
If spent in service true, to others giving 
The blessing you receive. 

Eastern High School, Washington, D. C. 


DUSK 

by John Holmes, 

The deepening twilight is the homing hour 
When men returning from the labor of the day 
Look forward to the quiet of their fireside; 

And tired, hungry children leave their play. 

It is the hour when all the people of the city 
Are gathered round their lamplit boards; 

The quiet hour, when those who have no home 
Deserve the charity of other men, and pity. 

High School, Somerville, MasscuJiuseUs, 
34 


THE CITY AFTER RAIN 
hy Wilson Morris, *25 

The rain that cast its moving veil 
To hide the earth before my face 
Has ceased, and all the world is still, 

And awesome, like a holy place. 

The little city noises seem 
Harmonious and far away; 

The earthen scented atmosphere 
Is calm, and cool, and silver grey. 

The dying embers of the sun 
Pour molten silver on the grass. 

And on the roofs, in shimmering paths. 

Where must the feet of angels pass! 

Oh, curse the tin and filth and grime. 

The vulgar street! Yet children say 
Above the squalid city roofs 
The road to heaven leads away. 

Girls* High School, Louisville, Kentucky, 

CITY TWILIGHT 
hy Robert Keefe, *2Ji, 

O, now the city’s crowned by haunted air. 

On walled and mystic heights a dream is blown. 
Revealing far-off things surpassing fair 
To seekers who would seek, though day is flown. 

35 


For twilight falls as silently as snow 
On moments beating down a dusty day, 

It falls in ashen rose, in far wild glow— 

Gleams and sinks and gleams with shattered ray. 

Smoke that shone at noon is very dim. 

Loveliness encircles rearing spires. 

So twilight brings again the peace of Him, 
Twilight brings again our lost desires. 

Thus dreams on hammered stone are lightly cast 
Across a city’s heart in poignant light. 

Keep them in your heart to make them last. 

Keep them in your heart throughout the night. 

High School, Everett, MassachiLsetts, 

RETURN 
by Eleanor Wolff, '^3 

From purple and blue and silver 
I came to a bolted door. 

And lights that were hard and yellow 
Glared on the carpetless floor. 

The walls stood steep and thwarting. 

And rubbers lay in pairs. 

And banisters spindly mounted 
Up worn and barren stairs. 

Ethical Culture School, New York City, 
36 


A SONG 

Prudence Veatchy ^25 

My tongue is but a poor mute messenger. 

That cannot do the bidding of my brain; 

My heart, it is a wild, free, singing bird. 

That sings in vain, in vain. 

My pen is but an untried innocent. 

That little knows the use of poesy; 

My soul, though all aloof and strange to me. 

Still says unto my heart, ‘T pity thee!*’ 

Buffalo Seminaryy Buffaloy New York. 

BALLAD OF THE WISE WOMAN 
hy Helen Butterly, ’23 

I 

I sat alone with Knowledge and he told me many things 
The moonbeams never glisten with, the wild bird never 
sings— 

Old truths, pale truths, stripped of their young fire. 

That dimly shone upon my life to lead its cold course 
higher. 

Outside the winds flung joy around and all the world was 
free. 

But I sat within to hear what Knowledge said to me,— 
The high truths, the cold truths, that Knowledge gave to 
me! 

II 

Outside my door there waited the rosy-cloaked Ro¬ 
mance,— 


37 


Upon his lips there brimmed a song—within his feet a 
dance; 

And roses filled his trembling arms; his golden head was 
crowned 

With blazing hopes and glowing thoughts that Life had 
wreathed around. 

His eyes were hid in mirth and love and as I looked again, 

A part of them was rapture,—not the least of them was 
pain! 

He begged me then to come with him, where everything is 
May, 

On the green hill, the high hill, and watch my dreams at 
play. 

“Ah, wait!” I cried, “till Emowledge goes and there will 
come a day 

When I will surely go with you and watch my dreams at 
play. 

But till that day comes round to me, I may not yet be 
free,— 

I must listen to the high truths that Knowledge gives to 
me— 

The great truths, the noble truths, that Knowledge gives 
to me!” 


Ill 

He threw his roses at me—where they fell I let them stay; 
He wrapped his music round my heart—I tore it all away; 
I shut the door upon his sighs, the window on his song— 
And all my heart was little cries and all the day was 

long. . . . 


38 


But wisdom gilds the darkness and we live, with Life away; 

And I bound my straining fandes close to where my reason 
lay. 

And then I set my ears to hear and turned my eyes to see 

The strong truths, the stern truths, that Knowledge gave 
to me. 

IV 

Romance still lingered outside, with his weight of rosy 
song. 

His dreams, his sighs, his laughter-^Romance had waited 
long. 

But patient through the night he stood and every minute 
told. 

Till all the winds flung grief around and all the world was 
cold. 

He threw his sighs upon the moon—^his songs beat on a 
star— 

His laughter scattered on the winds that tossed it high and 
far. 

And all his dreams dissolved away, save one that tarried 
there 

To grow into a paining weight for all my thoughts to heart 

(My thoughts, that sat within, all turning eagerly 

To the cruel truths, the harsh truths, that Knowledge gave 
to me.) 

V 

And then there fell upon my world the little shining day, 

That like a jewel hung on Life to give its deeds a ray,— 

That like a tiny, far-off star strained from the dreary sky 

39 


To burst away and come to me—the glittering day was by. 

And from the words of Knowledge a frightened truth had 
sprung, 

That seized upon my yearnings—“You will be no longer 
young!” 

And I thought it best to hasten while my steps were quick 
and free 

And my pulses raced along with Life in mad uncertainty. 

And so with fear I hastened to unbar the heavy door 

To let Romance come in and strew his roses on my floor. 

But before me he was lying, with all his roses dead,— 

The glowing thoughts all frozen—the blazing hopes all 
fled. 

And all the cold night swirled around; the stars all hid from 
view. 

And both his rich eyes shut from me and what they prom¬ 
ised too. 

And all the dreams dissolved away, save the one that 
tarried there. 

To grow into a paining weight, that every day I bear! 

Then Knowledge! was my cry—Knowledge still is left to 
me! 

I will hear what Knowledge tells me—I will listen eagerly 

To the weary truths, the false truths, that Knowledge has 
has for me! 

VI 

I went into the room again and all was cold and bare. . . . 

I called aloud for Knowledge—and Knowledge was not 
there! 

Flushing High School, New York City, 

40 


THE PUBLIC LIBRARY 
hy Herbert H. Weinstocky '23 
A man 

Who follows the print 
With his nose 
Builds a bridge 
Over a swift stream 
In Montana. 

A young woman, 

Comely and attractive, 

Reads disinterestedly 
The life story 
Of Palestrina. 

A tall, gaunt man, 

Whose coat is frayed and torn. 

Follows, 

With word-skipping haste. 

The impossible adventures 
Of a detective. 

A thick-clothed, dirty, little boy 
Learns how to receive messages 
Over the rooftops of the world. 

While I, 

In a golden howdah. 

Pass down a street in Agra 
Between matchless domes and minarets. 
The girl at the desk 
Counts yellow cardboards; 


41 


“One hundred two. 

One hundred three—” 

Riverside High School, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
by George H. Rehm 

A sainted memory; calm, imposing, grand; 

A model for the world unto all time; 

His rugged worth beloved in every land; 

His words and deeds revered in every clime. 

A man of honor, kindliness, and love; 

Of wisdom, earnestness, and truth the soul; 

For guidance, ever trustingly above 
He sought, his spirit to keep whole. 

Strength of a nation! Faithfully the guide 
Through war’s mad tempest steered with skillful art 
To ports of peace, whose joys were all denied 
When death forever stilled the noble heart. 

A nation’s teardrops bathed the martyred head; 

A nation’s prayers ascend now for the dead. 

West Side High School, Denver, Colorado. 

THE JUDGE 
by Bessie Closson, *23 

Praise, honor, glory, what are these beside 
A man’s own consciousness of work well done; 

What is the trophy to the man who knows 
The race he won was well and nobly run? 

42 


What is the scom of others to the man 
Who looks with shame upon the work he wrought; 
What mean the hisses of the multitude 
To him who knows his battle basely fought? 

Our failures and our triumphs can be judged 
The best by no one but ourselves, because 
We know the best how strong or weak we are; 

He best can judge effects who knows the cause. 

Union High School^ Lodi, California, 

SORROW 

by Margaret McHugh, ’23 

When Sorrow whispers low, sweet, painful words to me 
And looks in scorn upon a passing ecstacy, 

I shrink in melancholy from her sight. 

And fear to look upon her visage white; 

But after she is gone and Joy appears, 

I find myself much stronger for my tears. 

Derham Hall High School, The College of 
St, Catherine, St. Paul, Minnesota, 


A LONELY CHILD 
by Dorothy M. Powell, ’23 

Once when I was a lonely child, 

I stood upon a hillside wild; 

The world stretched out to meet the sea, 
43 


Then sank into eternity, 

Unsolved. . . . 

I stood upon a dismal street; 

A lonely dog was at my feet; 

A man tapped by, he could not see; 

Dear God, the world is yet to me. 

Unsolved. . . . 

High School^ Chester, Pennsylvania, 

TO HIM WHO SIGHS 

by Marjorie Cope, ’24- 

To him who sighs I would inscribe these lines: 
“See, happiness is many little things: 

The fragrance of fresh earth, the talk of streams, 
Grass yielding under foot, and birds that sing 
And wake a moment’s rush of ecstacy; 

To gaze down some colossal road of hills 
And know the vastness that is God—all these 
Are Happiness. And they are all about thee. 
Reach forth and take them, discontented child.” 

High School, Yakima, Washington, 

DREAMS 

by W. Marshall Johnson, ’23 

Now and then, in pensive mood. 

In drowsy, visionary solitude. 

My thoughts go drifting far on unknown streams:— 
In happy bliss I dream boy-dreams. 

44 


IVe dreamed of Spain and Grecian sunny clime. 
Of sweet success in a dim, distant time. 

s|e * Hs 

I wonder if I’ll live to see 
Myself the man I’ve dreamt I’ll be. 

High Schooly Waltharriy Massachusetts, 


GENIUSES 
hy Helen Jewett, ^23 

How is it, Oh, immortal men. 

That you have been the chosen ones 
To bring God’s message to this world.? 
Did a vast longing fill your soul. 

To steep your mind in beauty’s lore.? 
Did you believe you heard the sounds 
Of angels’ voices chanting praise.? 

For you, as His great messengers. 
Have so fulfilled your tasks, that now 
Your names bring only visions rare 
Of beauty such as gods create. 

’Twas you, great Raphael, who made 
On a mere fragment of the loom, 

A portrait of The Holy Ghost. 

What feeling filled your soul so full? 
What creed did you so live for, that 
Our Lord himself appeared, and let 
45 


You bring to men such beauty as 
The world had never known before? 

’Twas Handel with his joyous notes— 

His softly blurred notes, sounding loud 
To pealing triumphs—who has taught 
Us that there is a way to add 
Eternal beauty to our praise. 

His organ caught the music of 

The spheres. His dextrous pen has well 

Transcribed it for his fellow men. 

The mortals of this universe. 

Are spiritual artists still among us? 

Are geniuses of fibre such as these 
Mere human mortals, like to us? 

If so. Oh, why. Almighty King, 

Why, then, may I not also serve 
To bring celestial beauty from 
Thy court, to this Thy kingdom here? 

The Gateway,'* New Haven, Connecticut, 


BEAUTY 
hy Marshal Schacht 

Softer than a winter morn. 
Placid as a fatalist. 

Sweeter than far distant smoke 
Of violets. 


46 


Warmer than the breath of suns. 

Cooler than white Grecian art, 

Singing like the voice of God 
To me. 

High School, Brookline, Massachusetts. 


SONNET TO A CAMEO 
hy Ruth McDermott, 

O cameo, how beautiful you are— 

How beautiful your face in softest pink! 

No one can tell just who you are; I think 
Perhaps a maiden, playing her guitar 
Beneath the lazy loveliness of far. 

Far, blue Italian skies, upon the brink 
Of some fair lake where yellow sunbeams sink. 
And where at night each bright and shining star 
Sends down its light upon departed day— 
Perhaps an artist, chancing by the shore. 

Beheld your wondrous face and dusky hair. 

As dark as is the night; and then did pray 
That you allow yourseK forevermore 
To live in coral, delicate and rare. 

Academy of St. Elizabeth, Convent, New Jersey. 


47 


THE CORAL REEF 


Translated from the French of Jose d' Heredia by Jane 
Didisheim 

Blue dawns beneath the sea mysteriously send 
Sad newly risen rays and a cool glow that shines 
And lightens up the reef of coral which confines 
The sea beasts stiff in sleep, the flowers that bend. 

And all to softening hues the salty waters blend 
Mosses and bearded weeds, slim leaves on tranquil vines 
Covering with somber gold in intricate designs 
The tesselated floor of coral without end. 

His colors dazzling shine, causing all else to pale; 

A glorious giant fish with brightly glittering scale 
Wanders, and languid swims above the coral wold. 

Then with a sudden flash of fire-painted fin 

See! through the crystal forest wan and still and thin 

A golden shiver runs—inlaid with emerald. 

Ethical Culture School, New York City. 


48 


VENICE 

by Thomas R. Berkshire, *£3 

She sits enthroned upon her clustered isles, 

The city of canal and gondolet. 

Time has but touched her palaces and piles. 

A radiant jewel in Europe’s coronet 
Is she. And still o’er hushed lagoon 
The twilight drifts with Love beneath its wings. 
The holy calm of sailing stars and moon 
Is over all. Somewhere a lover sings. 

The memories of greatness and of power 
Long lost, enshroud her in a veil of sadness. 
Silence, and sobbing wind—beyond the tower 
The lover sings of Life’s eternal gladness. 

May we, like him, forget the buried Past, 

And trust that Love will heal all wounds at last. 

High School, Zanesville, Ohio. 


TRAVELING 
by Janet Wattles 

I cannot fear the strange new roads I find. 

Nor feel alone; 

Each road that winds across the countryside. 
Leads some one home. 

Buffalo Seminary, Buffalo, New York. 
49 


LINES 

hy Jim Chichester^ ’^4 

My journey was fruitless, 

I'm aged and bent, 

I face the truth calmly— 

My life is spent. 

But glorious the memory 
All pangs to soothe: 

I ventured it, bravely. 

In search of youth! 

High School, Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. 


CHILD THOUGHTS 
hy Lettice Lee Coulling, 

A child's thoughts are dear thoughts. 

As a little child's should be. 

And their little eyes are gently veiled 
Like the mist upon the lea; 

And a child's thoughts are white thoughts. 

That are very dear to me. 

Like the flash of a gleaming gull's wing 
Across a stormy sea. 

Dana Hall, Wellesley, Massachusetts. 


50 



V 

























